Dave was my rock. When I got upset, he stayed calm. When I was worried, he said that everything would be OK. When I wasn’t sure what to do, he helped me figure it out. Like all married couples, we had our ups and downs. Still Dave gave me the experience of being deeply understood, truly supported and completely loved. I thought I’d spend the rest of my life resting my head on his shoulder.

Since Dave passed away, so many people have said to me, “I can’t imagine.” They mean they can’t imagine this happening to them, can’t imagine how I am standing there talking to them rather than curled (蜷缩) up in a ball somewhere. I remember feeling the same way when I saw a colleague back at work after losing a child or a friend buying coffee after being diagnosed (诊断) with cancer. When I was on the other side, my reply became, “I can’t imagine either, but I have no choice.”

I had no choice but to wake up every day. No choice but to get through the shock, the sorrow, the survivor guilt. No choice but to try to move forward and be a good mother at home. No choice but to try to focus and be a good colleague at work.

Loss, sorrow, and disappointment are extremely personal. We all have unique circumstances and reactions to them. Still, the kindness and bravery of those who shared their experiences helped pull me through mine. Some are total strangers who offered wisdom and advice publicly—sometimes even in books with horrible titles. Others are my closest friends who opened their hearts, patient yet insistent that the darkness would pass, but that I would have to help it along. That even in the face of the most shocking misfortune of my life, I could have some control over its impact.

Every man wants his son to be somewhat of a clone, not in features but in footsteps. As he grows you also age, and your ambitions become more unachievable. You begin to realize that your boy, in your footsteps, could probably accomplish what you hoped for. But footsteps can be muddied and they can go off in different directions.

My son Jody has hated school since day one in kindergarten. Science projects waited until the last moment. Book reports weren’t written until the final threat.

I’ve been a newspaperman all my adult life. My daughter is a university graduate working toward her master’s degree in English. But Jody? When he entered the tenth grade he became a “vo-tech” student (技校学生).They’re called “motorheads” by the rest of the student body.

When a secretary in my office first called him “motorhead”, I was shocked. “Hey, he’s a good kid,” I wanted to say. “And smart, really.”

I learned later that motorheads are, indeed, different. They usually have dirty hands and wear dirty work clothes. And they don’t often make school honor rolls.

But being the parent of a motorhead is itself an experience in education. We who labor in clean shirts in offices don't have the abilities that motorheads have. I began to learn this when I had my car crashed. The cost to repair it was estimated at $800. “Hey, I can fix it,” said Jody. I doubted it, but let him go ahead, for I had nothing to lose.

My son, with other motorheads, fixed the car. They got parts from a junkyard, and ability from vo-tech classes. The cost was $25 instead of $800.

Since that first repair job, a broken air-conditioner, a non-functioning washer and a non-toasting toaster have been fixed. Neighbors and co-workers trust their car repair to him.

These kids are happiest when doing repairs. They joke and laugh and are living in their own relaxed world. And their minds are bright despite their dirty hands and clothes.

I have learned a lot from my motorhead: publishers need printers, engineers need mechanics, and architects need builders. Most important, I have learned that fathers don^ need clones in footsteps or anywhere else.

My son may never make the school honor roll. But he made mine.

I know many people who spend time thinking about all the might-have-beens, what-ifs and opportunities they’ve missed. They spend their lives constantly feeling like they’ve missed out on something big. Their boats have sailed. They’ve missed their one and only opportunity to be rich, famous and do something really amazing.

I know someone who used to enter the same numbers in the lottery every week. One week, she was too busy to get the ticket before the agency closed. And her numbers came up. There were no winners that week and the jackpot money rolled over to the following week: 10 million pounds. She’s never forgiven herself. Since then, she’s lived her life feeling like she’s missed her boat, the only opportunity she’ll ever have to be happy.

I suspect most of us would be pretty upset if that happened to us. Now, the question is, would we allow it to rule the rest of our lives? Or should we consider the possibility that it happened for a reason?

Now, I’ll admit that I’d have a very hard time saying anything along those lines for quite a while if something like that happened to me. But, if I knew that I was putting every effort into being wealthy or happy, then I would also know that just because something didn’t happen the way it ought to happen, everything would still be alright. I will be able to relax and let it go.

Nothing ever happens to me, but everything always happens for me. So long as I’m keeping my eye on my goals, everything that happens is the Universe moving me towards my goals. It’s definitely easier said than done, particularly at first. But it is doable. It’s simply a choice.

You haven’t missed your boat. Your boat is still there. Don’t waste your life crying over someone else’s boat. Step onto your own.